Heidi now lives a life of glory with Rachelle’s parents about an hour north of Toronto. Today I have given the Blog over to her:

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Heidi so very happy and popular and good-looking.

Heidi in best shape of her life, too.

Heidi superstar.

Heidi have no idea why not on cover of Sport’s Illustrated big sex issue this month!

Heidi hot.
Make no sense.
Editor team so speciesist!
All very, very bad dogs!!
Heidi bite them in face if ever try to pet her.

Still, Heidi life so very, very, very good and when sleep come, it carry Heidi and Jones on same dream-river.

 
Dream #1

Heidi and Jones go running at night.

Full moon light in us.

Fast run.
Green run through wet meadow.
Wide run.
Above and behind the dark wind follows.
All night we give chase.

At end Heidi lick egg sandwich off Jones face.

 
Dream #2

Heidi and Jones not Heidi and Jones, but Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones. Live in castle in mountains of France. Very nice castle. Bedroom in turrets. Like lofts. VERY expensive, but Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones super rich. Can afford it no problem!

Fly so fast and high! See everything. Eagle-Heidi and Eagle-Jones terrible missiles! We protectors of freedom and liberty. Fly like beautiful rockets, destroying enemy drones with fierce talons. Boom! Drones explode into fire-light at our touch! Hah! Stupid drones!! Get one million dollars (US) for every dead drone. Eagle-Heidi better than Eagle-Jones at it. Eagle-Heidi kill 268 drones, Eagle-Jones 12.

Heidi always teaching Jones, even when Eagles.

 
Dream #3

Heidi and Jones at Dolly Parton concert.

Heidi fucking love Dolly Parton.

Get asked up on stage to sing Islands In The Stream.

Heidi love that song so much want to be buried in it.

Jones doesn’t know words and start to cry.

Heidi SO embarrassed she show Jones her teeth and then pee!

Dream #4

In dream Heidi and Jones partners in high school science class. Assignment to dissect frog, but Heidi get excited and eat frog before start!! Taste so good!! Not like chicken sushi as Heidi expect, but like hamburger! Weird but delicious hamburger without bun! Jones mad he didn’t get to stab frog and start to cry! Little baby throws temper tantrum and yells, “NO!”

Heidi no take shit.

Heidi disciplinarian.

German in Heidi.

Show him teeth and growl to let Jones know Heidi serious, and then Heidi see another frog and eat it, too. Heidi can’t stop herself, Heidi eat all frogs in class! And then Heidi get detention because Jones sucky tattletale.

 
Dream #5

Heidi and Jones on subway.

Two-legger accuse Jones of “Manspreading.” Take picture and says post on Internet to shame Jones!! Jones no understand and start to cry!! Heidi get so furious she bite two-legger throat! Perfect bite! And then subway change and traveling underwater! Glowing fish everywhere! Heidi wonder what glowing fish taste like, then notice Jones has lasagna on face and lick it off.

Trump, even attired that way, commanded the subway like a stern and punctual marshall at a luxury golf course, and people knew not to mess with him.

Normally he would never think to take the subway, as it is a filthy and vulgar mode of transportation, but today he wanted filthy and vulgar. His legs spread out expansively, taking up at least two seats, he looked down at his most recent text from Melania and smiled:

“I am to poo you,” it read.

Melania’s English wasn’t very good, but Donald knew exactly what she meant.

It was their beautiful night together.

Every year on the anniversary on their first sex, Donald bought a fast food restaurant in the New York area, fired everybody, and then made Melania work the counter. This year, it was a Dairy Queen, and Donald, disguised as the Burger King, was going to come in and order Melania off the menu and then make her his fast food sex slave for the night.

It was a great tradition, and they both loved it very much.

As Donald sat there on the subway thinking about whether he should purchase and then and torture some of the homeless and desperate as part of fast food sex slave night, a woman approached him.

“The Burger King?” she said.

“You look low rent,” the Burger Trump retorted, “and let me tell you,” he continued, “I would rather be a king than some low rent subway hen.”

The low rent woman had full lips.

“Subway hen?”

Donald ignored her, Tweeting a threat to France.

The low rent woman looked closely at his fingers, as if figuring something out.

Suddenly, the subway came to a screeching halt. Everything went dark and Donald fell to the floor, his Burger King head spilling off and his phone skittering out of his pocket! When he looked up, he and the subway hen, also on the floor, were facing one another, their lips just inches apart– something unspoken burning between them now.

“You’re Donald Trump,” she whispered, “I knew I recognized those tiny, orange fingers!”

The stranger’s breasts heaved upon the filthy, seductive floor of the subway. He stared at the woman and she stared back, their breath hot and real.

Trump inched toward her and she inched toward him.

At that moment Donald’s phone began to ring, picking up an audible message from Melania, “Donald, it is your Queen Dairy, I have customer, and child wants me to make curl with ice cream that I cannot make. Tell her we close? Give her money? I stand by you, my man, even if ice cream disgusting. I still poo you, my king.”

Donald swept the phone away with certainty, like a Commander-In-Chief. And then the lights came on and the subway started up again. The low rent woman got up and dusted herself off and walked away, shivering, “This is the weirdest, fucking grossest day of my life,” she muttered to herself.

“Rosebud, “Donald Trump mouthed, “Rosebud.”

We’re holding up pencils, trading memes about not giving in to fear and bravely demanding news agencies reprint the Charlie Hedbo cartoons, often from the comfort of our sofas while watching The Mindy Project or the hockey game. We’re warriors for free speech and we will not be silenced.

It’s ironic that our courage for free speech is predicated largely upon being able to express it through the distant, quasi-anonymous medium of social media, and it’s even more ironic that the massacre in Paris has only an optical relationship to free speech rather than a substantive one.

It seems unlikely that there’s a single person in the West who believes that curtailing free speech in order to placate terrorism is a tolerable, let alone debatable idea. The cartoons in question will go on to colonize the world, and we will gather together by the thousands in public squares to safeguard our liberties. Free speech will not die, not on our watch.

We should presume that the people responsible for these murders knew that this would be the outcome. It is, after all, always the outcome. Whenever an act of terror is committed, a robust surge of patriotism and anger—which we often mistake for courage—follows. Our tribe rises up and begins to throw rocks at their tribe, and last night as people were gathering in Place de la Republique in glowing, peaceful solidarity, others were enacting the revenge narrative by attacking mosques and bombing kebab shops.

France, the nation that banned the covering of the face in public, has a reputation for being one of the more Islamophobic nations in Europe. The cartoons that Charlie Hedbo printed were puerile, designed for provocation more than satiric illumination, I think. By appealing to a ready-made, Muslim-averse public, they were picking low-hanging fruit. In a different context, the cartoons, instead of being seen as heroic, would be seen as offensive, bigoted propaganda.

There are roughly six million Muslims in France, and they comprise about ten percent of the population. Of that six million, approximately a third identify as practicing Muslims, with the rest, many of whom are marginalized immigrants, leading secular lives that presumably include things like Grand Theft Auto, football and beer. The terrorists don’t want these people to be assimilated into French culture, they want them to be radicalized, and to do so they must feel persecuted and unwelcome. I suspect that the point behind the killings was not to quell free speech, but to ratchet up tribal warfare against Muslims, ensuring that for new, would-be recruits, participation in a holy war will always seem like a decent option.

The response then should be to treat the people responsible as criminals, and not as a part of some invisible, ever-present army. Declaring war on an idea rather than a specific, definable entity seems doomed, and as we willingly suspend our civil rights and try to make our collective fear, anger and grief manifest in physical villains, our principles and values, our quality of life, begins to rot from the inside, and right there, the war is lost.

This is the email that I received from them:

“You feel the terror Murray? It come for you.

Your blog is no good. It is the worst and a great offense to all. You must stop your mediocre immediately or we will rain fire hell down upon you, making all your secret public. You like for that? We think not. If you post one more stupid thought piece on something you know-nothing, or write long, bad joke sketch, we drop bomb on your world! “

I am not the type to be cowed by terrorists, so the very next day I posted a dating advice column for prisoners as written by Charles Manson. It was fucking hilarious. If we don’t have humour, we have nothing. The terrorists will not take humour away!!

The response from the Guardians of Peace was swift and unequivocal. They changed the passwords of my fantasy hockey teams, thus locking me out and putting me at a VERY serious competitive disadvantage within my leagues.

I admit, that really hurt, but the next day I posted this photograph and caption, just to show them that I wasn’t cowed by their schoolyard bullying and that if it was a fight they wanted, well, it was a fight they were going to get.

Yippee ki yay mother fucker.

Their response:

“You real cracker jack. You dirty apple pie. Have you checked ugly blog today?”

This was the blog:

This is Michael Murray Stupid Blog:

Password folder: all passwords = IamExcellent#1

Banking:            $59.80

Credit:                $13.46

Investments:   $828.03            USD $0.00

Total:        CDN$901.29            USD $0.00

Excerpts from email:

From Michael Murray to Brodie Bigold: “ Really, your last name is French?!? I fucking hate the French!”

From Michael Murray to Phillippe Zeller, Ambassador to France: “We used to have a cheap ass chain department store in Canada called Zeller’s. You know what happened to them? They went out of business. You know what will happen to France? Out of fucking business.”

From Michael Murray to Jessica Simpson: “Why weren’t you included in the great celebrity nude sex photo thefts? You should have been. I mean, I wouldn’t have looked because I respect your privacy and wouldn’t want to violate you unless you were willing to be violated and stuff, but I’m just saying, you really should have been included. The Fappening just wasn’t what it should have been without you.”

Brilliant Idea Box

–Come up with game like Cards Against Humanity, make millions, see Jessica Simpson perform live.

–Make app that can tell when waitress is flirting with you

–Write think piece on what it’s like to be black in America

–Buy book on magic and then apply new knowledge to everyday life

Netflix queue:

1. The Hillz
2. Private Valentine: Blonde & Dangerous

3.Down Periscope

4.Wild Hogs

5. A Night at the Roxbury

6. Failure to Launch

7. Season Three of Dawson’s Creek

8. Season Four of Dawson’s Creek

9. Demolition Man

10. Spice World

Potential Tweets

I wouldn’t wait in line for anything! ( add example)

Don’t you hate poseurs! ( make more subtle)

Writing. #GoingWell

Here are a couple of book synopses that I’ve prepared for my publisher:

“Duke Miller and the mystery of the over-spiced and runny eggs.”

Duke, a young American food critic, is the sort of man who always knows where he’s going. He’s not afraid to send food back or say something that he believes about homosexuals, even if it’s not politically correct to do so. Duke, combining the brash individualism of the US with the delicate sophistication of Europe, travels the world reviewing restaurants with his constant companion, a miniature pot-bellied pig named Clipper.

In this introductory novel, Duke encounters a plate of over-spiced and runny eggs while on a trip in France, and investigates the mystery of how this happened. I do not want to give away the ending, but a flashlight plays a key role in solving the mystery!

“Duke Miller and that hostess from Montreal.”

In this transitional book, Duke investigates his romantic feelings for Audrey, an older, seductive hostess from a Montreal bistro. However, it turns out that Audrey is not really in love with Duke but just wants to secure a good review for her restaurant, something that Clipper cottons on to long before Duke. In the end, ‘Ce Coeur De Mien’ gets the review it deserves and Duke and Clipper are once again set on their happy, wandering ways.

“Duke Miller and the mystery of why the coffee tasted like jalapenos.”

Set in the exotic local of Cuba, this novel features a sub-plot of a resort worker—Freddy– who wishes to escape the terrible food and totalitarian regime of Cuba. Duke, investigating the mystery of the coffee, stumbles upon Freddy, who was being forced by a mean, tourist-hating chef to grind hot peppers into the coffee beverage served at the resort. Duke, shocked, agrees to help Freddy escape. Things go well until Duke discovers Freddy is a homosexual, at which point Duke’s morals will no longer permit him to help.

Me: Kind of scared.

Me: Kind of very scared.

Me: What if there’s a rope?

Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.

Me: Swaying ominously.

Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.

Me: There might be a rope!!

Me: I’m not overreacting.

Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.

Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.

Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.

Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.

Me: Not anymore.

Me: Fartmares.

Me: Very funny.

Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”

Me: Because there is no gas problem.

Me: My trainer?

Me: Her name is Laetitia.

Me: She’s French, France French.

Me: She thinks I’m really funny.

Me: No, funny ha-ha.

Me: Cute accent.

Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.

Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.

Me: My hands don’t look old.

Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.

Me: She’s going to test my grip.

Me: No, not my grip on reality.

Me: Man alive!

Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!

Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!

Me: Oh, you know the French.

Me: They’re like that.

Me: Yes, whorish.

Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.

Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?

Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.

Me: Alejandro.

Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.

Me: I just don’t.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.

Me: All right.

Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.

Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????

Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.

Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.

Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!

Me: The next test?

Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.

Me: Yes.

Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?

Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.

Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.

Me: Oh.

Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t see any equipment.

Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.

Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.

Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.

Me: As if.

Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.

Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.

A big, heaving white guy, he’s the kind of man that gets all red in the face and pumps his fist in the air shouting stuff like, “the gravy train must stop!” He has tiny, receded eyes that make him look as if he’s spent most of his life underground, hair that’s thin, sparse and so absent of colour as to appear transparent and emits the general vibe of a defeated salesman. His life has been buckshot with the sort of Frat Boy controversy you’d expect from a guy that grew up idolizing Rush Limbaugh and the CFL.

He’s not really into the brainy, micromanaging of governance, preferring instead to “take the bull by the horns.” Very often he does this by calling in to talk radio stations or writing letters to his constituents. These are some of Rob Ford’s recent missives:

To a 17 year-old suspected of committing a recent robbery:

Dear Mister Winston,

It’s Rob Fucking Ford here, Mayor of Toronto.

You’re scum.

I don’t want you in my city. I want you to leave my city. You’re a loser and a disgrace to the honest, hard-working citizens of my city. You think it’s cool to hold-up a gas station? Well, it’s not. We need gas to drive our cars. Did you ever think about that? I bet you didn’t. It’s not a victimless crime. You’re a loser and I swear, if I ever hear of you doing something like that in my city again I am going to take you out on the football field and make you my cheerleader, you bitch.

To a militant cyclist who organized a protest on a busy street at rush hour to  bring attention to unsafe biking conditions:

Dear Ms. Hairy Hippy Chick,

It’s Rob Ford here, yeah, that Rob Ford, the Mayor of your city. Lady, it’s not the 60’s, shave your armpits, get a job and learn to drive a goddamn car! If I see you protesting on one of my friggin’ streets again I am going to run you over in my Escalade. I’ll enjoy it. I want to rid my city of people like you and the goddamn pigeons who shit all over the place. You’re of the same diseased flock, as far as I’m concerned. Look out for me, license plate reads  “Go2Hell” and I drive fast, faster than Batman.

To a store in Chinatown that is suspected of selling bootleg movies:

Dear Mr. Chang or whatever,

It’s Mayor Rob Ford and I you boss. You do laundry for me, understand? No legal-legal to sell Hollywood star movies! Very bad! I shut you down like Jackie Chan, unless you me give Big Man Me movies I want. Big Man Me like Jennifer Aniston and movie with fast car and crash, understand? Keep them coming or I on you like white on rice.

To a graffiti artist known as DMC:

Dear Coward who hides behind the coward name DMC:

What the hell does DMC stand for?

Dumb Moronic Candy-Ass?

I tell you what Rob Ford, Mayor of your fucking city, stands for, he stands for the rule of law. Got it? Just because I can’t draw I don’t take out my frustrations  by vandalizing the city, that’s what a coward would do. That’s what you do. You’re a piece of trash.

I demand that you leave my city.

NOW!!!

Go to France where they play sissy football, sissy!